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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28188402">Take Two - Six Christmases</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raina_at/pseuds/Raina_at'>Raina_at</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Take Two [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Actor Sherlock, Alternative universe - theatre, Christmas, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues, Stage manager John, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, the difficult year 2020 is mentioned, timestamps</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 00:48:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,582</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28188402</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raina_at/pseuds/Raina_at</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Six Christmases in the lives of actor Sherlock and stage manager John, from their first kiss to the present day.<br/>Timestamps to my theatre AU "Take Two".</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Take Two [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064999</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. December 21st, 2009</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>While this will make a lot more sense -  and probably be more fun - if you've read Take Two, I'm not sure it's altogether necessary.<br/>A brief summary: Sherlock is an actor, John is a stage manager. They met, fell in love, broke up, and met again six years later, mutual pining ensued, and then they got back together.<br/>Thank you so much to my beta, hotshoe_again, and my darling wife. Both of you have made this better!<br/>Be warned, you all, self-indulgent, tooth-rotting fluff will ensue.<br/>This is also historic, because I think it's the first time I actually wrote timestamps for anything, but I adore my theatre boys so much, and this was an absolute blast to write, so there you go.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s quiet backstage. Sherlock half listens to the dialogue coming over the tinny speaker above the stage door. He has fifteen minutes until he needs to be on stage. </p><p>Actors mill about in the green room and the dressing rooms, some pacing, limbering up, others doing vocal exercises, others reading the paper. Molly is in the kitchen eating a sandwich with the nonchalant boredom stage crews often develop during a long run.</p><p>This has been an excruciatingly long run. Six weeks of overcrowded dressing rooms, dirty dishes overflowing the tiny kitchen sink, beautiful polyester costumes reeking of sweat.</p><p>Sherlock suppresses the urge to scratch. The green glitter paint he’s covered in itches infernally, and he’s cold in his tiny shorts.</p><p>“Act 2 Beginners, 10 minutes,” Mike’s voice calls over the speakers. </p><p>The stage door opens and John sticks his head out. He nods at Molly, and they wordlessly vanish in the direction of the stage to prepare the scene change from city to forest. </p><p>Sherlock lets out a huff of frustration. Six long weeks, and six weeks of rehearsals before that, and he still hasn’t gotten John Watson to kiss him. He hasn’t been subtle about his interest, either, but John just hasn’t caught on yet. </p><p>Oh, he stares at Sherlock. Especially in costume. Sherlock can feel his eyes travel up his bare spine like fingertips, and he knows just from the feeling that look gives him that when he finally <i>gets</i> John, it will be spectacular.</p><p>Mike calls the five for Act 2 beginners, and Sherlock goes through the stage door and steps into the wings. Anticipation makes his skin crawl because this is his favourite moment of the night. </p><p>It’s quiet in the wings, and warm, and dark. Mike’s calling sound cues, and Molly and John are preparing for the scene change, but they’re consummate professionals and barely make a sound. Their black clothing and soft-soled sneakers make them seem like moving shadows, benevolent theatre elves.</p><p>John touches his shoulder lightly and cocks his head, smiling. Sherlock nods, and together, they cross over to stage left, and John helps Sherlock onto the ledge halfway up the stage wall where Sherlock spends his first ten minutes as Puck. John smiles at him and pats his calf like he does every night, and every night, his hand lingers a bit longer. Every  night the hands on Sherlock get more secure, and Sherlock wants nothing more than for these hands to stay on him and drag through that goddamned green paint and just smear it over Sherlock’s entire body. He wants John’s handprints on him, and he wants John to be covered in green paint, so everyone will know that John is <i>his</i>. It always surprises him, the fierceness of his want, and every night, he bites down on it, tells himself <i>later</i>, and then the lights hit him and he’s on.</p><p>And now they’re on their last show, and Sherlock has the absurd feeling that if he doesn’t do something tonight, he won’t ever do anything at all, even though he still has six months left on his contract.</p><p>Music. Lights. He’s on, and once again the immediacy of performance wipes his head of any thought other than the next line, the next action, the next cue. He gives himself over to the moment, and as ever he feels oddly free, and buoyant, and outside of himself.</p><p>He loses track of time, as always. Before he knows it, the stage is dark, the lone green headlight illuminating him as he speaks the well-known closing words. He feels every eye in the house on him, and none of them matter as much as John Watson’s, who is waiting in the wings, smiling with the obvious excitement of live performance that he isn’t yet cynical enough to hide. </p><p>Roaring applause, and the ensemble streams out of the wings to take their bows. Sherlock goes through the motions of bowing gracefully, even though he could care less about this ritual, and then the final curtain falls, and everybody's hugging everybody else. </p><p>Mrs Hudson is there, going right in on the hugging. “Punch and biscuits in the green room, everybody. Let’s have a bit of Christmas cheer on our last night.”</p><p>The actors all clear out, and Sherlock lingers, watching John and Molly who clear the stage with practiced ease, joined by Mike, and Dave from lights. Tomorrow morning, they’ll start dismantling the set, and tomorrow afternoon nothing will remain except the raw bones of the theatre.</p><p>John smiles at him. “Good one tonight, didn’t you think?”</p><p>Sherlock swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “Tolerable.”</p><p>John huffs a laugh, easy and amused and so very, very charming, and Sherlock wants to taste that laugh, wants to chase it into John’s mouth with his tongue. “Glad it’s over?” John asks, still smiling at him.</p><p>Sherlock shrugs. “It was fine.” <i>I wanted it to go on forever, just you and me in the dark, </i> he doesn’t say.</p><p>“I have to say, I’m going to miss the outfit,” John says with a cheeky wink.</p><p>Sherlock stares at him open-mouthed because John Watson is <i>flirting</i> with him. After weeks and weeks of all but throwing himself at John, finally John is flirting with him, playfully, with that devastating smile he has, with his hair flopping into his face and his black cargo pants and the gaffer tape slung into his belt, and how is this whole breathing thing supposed to work again? “I’ll wear them for you anytime,” Sherlock  says after he finds his breath again.</p><p>John looks down and bites his lips and actually <i>blushes</i> a bit, and how is Sherlock supposed to handle this?</p><p>The stage door opens and Mrs Hudson sticks her head in. “Leave it for later, dears, and come have some punch.”</p><p>John shrugs at Sherlock. “Don’t mind if I do.” He walks a few steps, then turns around and asks, with an arched eyebrow, “Coming?”</p><p>Sherlock is proud of himself for a) remembering how to walk and b) his self command of <i>not</i>  snogging the life out of John.</p><p>The party in the green room is in full swing. Mrs Hudson has decorated a bit, put up a small tree, some tinsel and fairy lights, so the usually drab room looks rather nice. </p><p>John makes a beeline for the punch and Sherlock trails after him, uncertain what to do with himself. Then a draft hits him and he thinks, <i>Change. Definitely change.</i></p><p>He goes into his dressing room and starts rummaging around for a towel.</p><p>“Sherlock?”</p><p>He turns around and John is leaning in the doorframe. “You want some punch?” he asks, clearly hesitant.</p><p>And then Sherlock notices that John is standing under a sprig of mistletoe Mrs Hudson has taped to the doorframe. </p><p>Sherlock swallows audibly. Now or never. </p><p>He takes two steps towards John, grabs a fistful of his t-shirt, and pulls him into a kiss.</p><p>For a heart-stopping second, nothing happens.</p><p>Then John’s hands settle on his waist, and John pulls him in and kisses him back, open-mouthed and dirty, and Sherlock’s knees turn to jelly. He runs greedy hands over John’s body, and John does the same with him, fingers tracing the curve of his spine, his hip bones, winding into his hair.</p><p>They break apart for breath, and John looks up at Sherlock, smiling at him like he’s a winning lottery ticket, hair mussed from Sherlock’s fingers. There’s green bodypaint on his face, on his hands, all over his clothes.  It looks insanely good on him. </p><p>Sherlock knows he’s grinning idiotically, and he doesn’t care a bit. “Merry Christmas,” he says a bit breathlessly.</p><p>John laughs, and Sherlock can feel the vibration in his own body. It’s the best feeling he’s ever experienced in his life. “Merry Christmas,” John answers, then moves in for another kiss.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. December 24th, 2016</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Set between Chapter 6 and the epilogue of Take Two</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock turns off the ignition, and the radio cuts off George Michael in the middle of the word Christmas.</p>
<p>It’s warm inside the car, but the temperature starts to drop immediately as the heaters go out. The windshield fogs up quickly with their breaths.</p>
<p>The house before them is big and tastefully over-decorated. Two large, festively trimmed firs flank the front of the house, and a giant wreath obscures most of the front door.</p>
<p>“Well,” Sherlock says, making himself flinch with the loudness of his voice in the sudden silence, the false ring of his cheer. “Might as well get this over with.”</p>
<p>John nods absently, his eyes on the front door and the truly disproportionate wreath. </p>
<p>He doesn’t make a move to get out of the car. He doesn’t even really seem to have heard Sherlock.</p>
<p>“Waiting isn’t going to make this any easier,” Sherlock points out, hoping to get John moving with a bit of gentle encouragement.</p>
<p>“Right,” John answers, sounding entirely distracted. His eyes roam over the size of the house, the Porsche in the driveway, the fairy lights gleaming from every window. </p>
<p>“John. It’s Christmas dinner. It’s not a root canal,” Sherlock says, more amused than angry. “Though I see your point. Dental surgery might be preferable.” Sherlock pauses for effect. “Well. Maybe not surgery. But a standard filling, perhaps.”</p>
<p>John huffs a small laugh, and Sherlock smiles smugly. Mission accomplished.</p>
<p>“They like you,” Sherlock points out.</p>
<p>“They very much don’t,” John answers, gesturing at the house. “They’re just too polite to say so.”</p>
<p>“It’s nothing personal, they like you fine as a person, it’s my being together with you that’s the problem.”</p>
<p>“I know. That’s the opposite of helpful.”</p>
<p>Sherlock sighs. His parents have no problem with him being gay, but they would very much like for him to have a boyfriend who’s good for his carreer. They think - idiotically - that Sherlock is slumming it a bit with John, which is ridiculous because everybody knows it’s the other way around. Well, everybody except John. </p>
<p>“Hey,” he nudges John with the back of his hand, and John turns to look at him. </p>
<p>“If it helps, I like you enough for all three of us together.”</p>
<p>John smiles at him, small and warm and genuine. He leans over and presses a quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips, just a brush, just a reminder. “You know what? That’s actually enormously helpful.”</p>
<p>Sherlock leans over and whispers in John’s ear, “And once this is over, I’ll take you home and reward you creatively. So start thinking about what you want.”</p>
<p>John turns his head, and the kiss this time is neither quick nor easy, it’s hard and hot and dirty. “Anything,” John breathes against Sherlock’s lips. “As long as it’s you.”</p>
<p>Sherlock grins, feeling slightly punch-drunk after that kiss. “Good. Now you have something to think about every time my mother brings up the fact that Tom Hiddleston is still single and she’s heard he’s bi.”</p>
<p>John laughs against Sherlocks’ lips, and then he straightens and nods once to signal that he’s ready.</p>
<p>“Let’s get this over with.”</p>
<p>“Once more into the breach, dear friend.”</p>
<p>John grins. “The game’s afoot. For Harry, England and St. George.”</p>
<p>“More like for you, me and blowjobs,” Sherlock mutters and smiles when John almost stumbles out of the car with laughter.</p>
<p>He meets John in front of the car, and they stand there for a moment. Then Sherlock reaches for John’s hand and winds their fingers together, safe and sure, and he hopes that John gets the message. <i>Fuck them. I chose you, and I will continue to choose you for as long as you let me.</i> </p>
<p>John smiles at him, squeezing his hand, and Sherlock nods, and together they go into the house.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. December 19th, 2017</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sherlock is in Sydney for a play, just for context.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Anyway, it was a lovely christening, though why Mary chose me for godfather is anyone's guess." </p>
<p>John yawns and tilts the computer screen a bit so he can lie down and still see Sherlock. </p>
<p>"You're excellent godfather material, and you know it, so don't go fishing for compliments, John," Sherlock answers, voice sleep-roughened and deep even through the tinny laptop speakers. </p>
<p>"I barely know a baby's head from its feet," John points out and snuggles back into his pillow. It's 11 pm in London where John is about to go to bed, and 10 am in Sydney. Sherlock has just woken, since he rehearses in the afternoon and evening. But with an 11-hour time difference, John has gotten used to at least one of them being tired and slightly cranky on these calls.</p>
<p>"Anyway," John adds around a huge yawn, "everybody missed you." </p>
<p>Sherlock snorts into his coffee. "No, they didn't."</p>
<p>"Okay," John mutters. "I missed you."</p>
<p>"I miss you too." Sherlock sounds as wistful as John feels. </p>
<p>John smiles at Sherlock over the screen, wishing he could just curl into him and fall asleep like that. "Are you having fun in rehearsal?" </p>
<p>Sherlock looks down to hide his smile. "Yes." </p>
<p>"Three days, and you'll be home for two weeks. And then it's just four more months," John says, glad that he sounds more confident than he feels.</p>
<p>It's been tough, especially because of the time difference. They text and talk on the phone and over Skype, but one or the other is always tired or at work or has just woken up. But in three days Sherlock will be home for Christmas, and in February John has a week off and will visit Sherlock in Sydney, and in the meantime they'll make do. </p>
<p>"Have you bought any Christmas presents yet?" John asks, feeling pleasantly drowsy. </p>
<p>"Boring. It's why I keep you around." </p>
<p>John laughs quietly. "I haven't bought a single thing yet. Except yours." </p>
<p>"Well, just get some Pompous Git Shop gift certificates for my brother, and some sticks for my parents' arses, and my family is set." </p>
<p>John laughs so hard the laptop almost falls from the bed. "God I love you," he pants between helpless bursts of giggles. </p>
<p>Sherlock is quiet for a long moment. "I love you too. You know that, right?" </p>
<p>John's amusement fades into a warm glow of contentment. "Yes. I know."</p>
<p>He closes his eyes and lets himself drift for a bit. </p>
<p>"John?" </p>
<p>"Yes?"</p>
<p>"This is surprisingly hard." </p>
<p>John nods. "Yes." </p>
<p>"And surprisingly easy." </p>
<p>“How do you mean?” John asks, sitting up a bit straighter, because this seems like a conversation he should be moderately alert for.</p>
<p>Sherlock looks away from the screen and John can see his hesitation. “I… I’m not…” Frustrated, Sherlock runs a hand through his hair. He looks directly at John, eyes finding his through the screen. “I'm not worried about us. I know you’ll be there when I get home.”</p>
<p>John smiles. “Told you the whole getting-married thing would help.” </p>
<p>Sherlock gives him a small, soft smile. “I do wonder what would have happened if we’d done this six years ago. If I gave up six years I could have been with you, because I didn’t have faith that we could last.”</p>
<p>“Good question.” John shrugs. “I guess we’ll never know, but I don’t think it would have been the same at all back then. I mean, we’re older now. You know.” He looks down at his hand, at the wedding ring on his finger, and thinks about how often he looks at it to remind himself that Sherlock <i>chose</i> him, that Sherlock wants him, as unbelievable as it is at times. “I wasn't sure of you, then. I wasn’t sure of anything back then.”</p>
<p>“Me neither,” Sherlock admits. “But I’m sure now.”</p>
<p>“Me too,” John answers, wishing he could kiss Sherlock now. </p>
<p>Sherlock’s phone dings, and he picks it up to look at it. “I need to get going,” he says, obviously reluctant. </p>
<p>“Go. I need to sleep anyway.”</p>
<p>Sherlock nods and looks at him with so much open fondness that John feels stupid for ever doubting that Sherlock loves him. “I’ll see you in three days.”</p>
<p>John smiles. “Looking forward to it.”</p>
<p>Sherlock hesitates. “John?”</p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>“My present… is it a sex thing?”</p>
<p>John snorts with amusement. “No.”</p>
<p>“Could it be?”</p>
<p>“Tell you what,” John says, leaning closer to the computer screen as if whispering into Sherlock’s ear. “You come home, and I’ll get you a sex thing for your stocking. Something completely, entirely, thoroughly naughty. Deal?”</p>
<p>Sherlock looks at him and his eyes go dark with promise, and John suddenly thinks that three days are an indecently long time. “Deal.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. December 22nd, 2018</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John dislikes afterparties. Many stage crew members do. Mostly it’s because they work longer hours than the actors and just want to go home when the show is done, but it’s also a bit of a social class thing. Usually, the backstage crew doesn’t socialise with the actors, nor the other way around. That doesn’t mean there’s no romance going on; in fact, many actors are married to stage crew, but there’s little mixing of social groups.</p>
<p>This is why John is the only non-actor at the Barbican’s ‘Last Show, Thank God, Also Christmas’ party, and he’s here exclusively because his husband was the lead actor of the production they’re currently celebrating the last night of.</p>
<p>John had a back row ticket - he hates sitting in front, especially when Sherlock’s onstage - and now the actors, who’ve seen him around picking Sherlock up after shows and rehearsals, all want to hear how he liked the play.</p>
<p>That’s another reason John dislikes afterparties. He’s bad at coming up with polite ways of saying, ‘The play you’re in is shit.’ He was slightly forewarned by Sherlock, who’s been vocal about his dislike of the production, but he wasn’t prepared for it to be this bad. </p>
<p>He’s almost through his repertoire. He’s used ‘Well, I liked <i>your</i> performance’, which gets him away from most actors because that’s all they care about. He deflected the costume designer with a question about the quick change in Act 2, and the set designer with a highly technical lighting question, and now he’s racking his brain on what to say to the director. He can’t say ‘Interesting interpretation’, because it’s code for ‘It was rubbish and I hated it’. He  can’t use 'nice' or ‘professional’; that’s just plain insulting. He’s finally settling on an observation about how well the director led the actors, while still worrying about that sounding like 'Congratulations on not murdering my husband, the annoying git', when he finally spots Sherlock.</p>
<p>He’s standing on the other side of the crowded room and is surrounded by his usual gaggle of rich theatre patrons, press and admiring fans. </p>
<p>The young actor who played Sherlock’s lover is hovering beside him, trying to catch his attention. John knows, from Sherlock, that the kid has a bit of a crush on Sherlock, and that Sherlock has so far been unable to quash it even though he’s been as unpleasantly blunt to the kid as he possibly can. Even if Sherlock hadn’t told John any of that, the besotted expression on the kid’s face would be enough to clue him in. He feels a bit sorry for the boy; on the other hand, he needs to learn boundaries, otherwise he’ll get his heart broken constantly in this profession. Just because somebody kisses you passionately on stage doesn’t mean they’re in love with you. Character bleed is a nasty habit you can’t break young actors out of soon enough, at least in John’s humble opinion. </p>
<p>So John is really about to perform a public service, as well as making it quite plain that Sherlock is very much his, thank you very much. And it’s not that John is jealous of people Sherlock kisses on stage, that’s just silly, but he isn’t above the occasional claim-staking. Especially when handsome whippersnappers give him condescending side-eyes while hitting on his husband.</p>
<p>He knows the second Sherlock sees him, because his face lights up in a way that makes John’s heart twist and beat faster. They’ve been together for two and a half years - well, if you don’t count the hiatus - and they’ve been married for a year and a half of those, but Sherlock hasn’t lost the ability to quicken John’s pulse merely by looking at him, and John fervently hopes he never will.</p>
<p>Sherlock takes a few steps towards him and smiles at him in a ‘there you are, I’ve missed you’ sort of way, and John can’t help himself: he pulls Sherlock in for a very public but very necessary kiss. </p>
<p>Sherlock huffs in surprise, but kisses him back gladly and enthusiastically, and John feels nothing but grateful wonder that Sherlock not only tolerates his little exhibition, but that Sherlock wants him to kiss him, wants him to make it clear that Sherlock is John’s and nobody else's, and that he likes it that way. He ignores both the embarrassed mutters and the encouraging hoots around them and concentrates on kissing Sherlock, fisting his hands in his suit jacket, leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind who Sherlock goes home to. </p>
<p>When they finally move apart, Sherlock looks flushed and pleased and happy. “How was the play?” he asks against John’s lips.</p>
<p>“It was shit,” John answers without hesitation. “Can we go home now?”</p>
<p>Sherlock laughs and twines their hands together. “My pleasure.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. December 21st, 2019</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Inspired by real life... I'm sorry, honey.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"What do you think you're doing?" Sherlock demands, setting the pot of tea he just made down on John’s bedside table. </p>
<p>“Getting up,” John answers, struggling to get the duvet off.</p>
<p>Sherlock rushes towards the bed and gently presses him back into his pillow. “Tell me what you want and I’ll get it for you.”</p>
<p>John looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “I need to get dressed. I need to be at the theatre in two hours, I’m calling the show tonight.”</p>
<p>“If you think you’re calling anything tonight, you’re insane.” He holds out John’s phone. “Call Mrs Hudson and tell her you’re sick.”</p>
<p>“I’m not sick.” John scoffs. “It’s just a little head cold.”</p>
<p>“John, you were awake coughing half the night, and you’re burning up with fever.”</p>
<p>John makes a ‘Bah, humbug’ sort of gesture. “I’m not feverish, I’m just hot from lying under the blankets. It’s not like this is the first time either of us has gone into work a bit sick.”</p>
<p>That’s true enough, Sherlock has to admit it. He’s had colleagues who have done shows with everything from stomach flu to broken bones to kidney stones. He himself has worked through pneumonia, a broken wrist, and the worst of cocaine withdrawal. Generally, in theatre, you work if you’re not a) dead, b) currently in labour or c) too ill to stand up.  Unless you have an understudy, which John very much does. "Carol can call the show."</p>
<p>"Carol hasn't even seen the show." </p>
<p>"Please," Sherlock snorts. "Your book is so perfect a ten year old could call the show." </p>
<p>"But I'm fine," John insists. </p>
<p>Sherlock closes his eyes and summons the entirety of his remaining patience. “All right. I will let you go to work, I will even go with you, if you can manage to get to the loo and back without assistance.”</p>
<p>John gives him a smug smile that lasts for exactly as long as it takes for him to sit upright. He makes it two steps before Sherlock has to all but catch him and carry him back to bed.</p>
<p>John lies there, panting and shivering, obviously miserable and unwilling to admit it. He cracks an eye open and fixes Sherlock with a glare. “I hate you.”</p>
<p>Sherlock holds out the phone. “Call Mrs Hudson.”</p>
<p>John takes the phone and looks at it for a long moment. Then he lets out a long sigh and lowers it slightly to look at Sherlock. “I’ve never missed a show before.”</p>
<p>“I know,” Sherlock says, restraining himself from taking the phone from John to call Mrs Hudson himself and threaten grievous bodily harm if she lets John enter the theatre tonight. “But you have a very competent crew who can do this without you for one night. Or even several.”</p>
<p>“They need me,” John insists, but he isn’t really looking at Sherlock, he’s looking at the phone, and Sherlock knows exactly what John is thinking, what John is always thinking. <i>If I’m not indispensable, people will never stick with me. If I’m not perfect, I’m not worth it. </i></p>
<p>“<i>Fuck</i> them, and <i>fuck</i> the bloody theatre," Sherlock snaps."<i>I</i> need you. I need you healthy and happy and with me for as long as we both shall live, you enormous idiot, and as far as I’m concerned, Baker Street Theatre can burn to the ground tonight, and every other night until you are well enough to get out of this bed. And you will stay in this goddamned bed until I or a trained health care professional says otherwise. Or  so help me God I will tie you to that bed, and this time you won’t like it.”</p>
<p>John meets his eyes, and for a long time they just look at each other, and then Sherlock can see something in John give, and his entire face softens into a fond smile. “All right,” he says. “Maybe you’ve got a point. I did promise you a lifetime, didn’t I.”</p>
<p>“Precisely,” Sherlock says. “And I intend to hold you to that.”</p>
<p>John holds his gaze for another moment, and then he calls in sick for the first time since Sherlock met him. He can hear Mrs Hudson on the other end of the phone fussing over John, and he’s satisfied that he doesn’t need to threaten her after all. He is rather fond of her.</p>
<p>John hangs up the phone and lets it fall onto his nightstand with an audible clatter. “I feel awful,” he says hoarsely, and Sherlock crawls into bed with him and shifts them so John is lying with his too-hot body pressed against Sherlock’s side, head resting on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock closes his eyes for a few moments, enjoying the feeling of John's body against his, even though John is sniffling disgustingly and smells like stale sweat. As always, he takes a moment to be grateful for this, for the simple fact that John is here, with him, even a grumpy, stubborn, sick and disgusting John. That John chose him, said yes to him, again and again, that John stays. </p>
<p>"I was looking forward to the Christmas party tonight. Mrs Hudson made gingerbread," John grumbles as he settles down, burrowing into Sherlock in a way that makes Sherlock’s heart twist pleasantly. </p>
<p>"I can drop by and pick some up for you later." </p>
<p>"I hate being sick at Christmas." </p>
<p>“Let’s look on the bright side,” Sherlock says quietly against John’s hair. “If you’re not better in three days, we can cancel Christmas dinner with my parents this year.”</p>
<p>"But that means I won't get my 'you managed not to strangle my parents' reward," John points out drowsily. </p>
<p>"I'll reward you for staying in bed instead, how about that?" </p>
<p>John huffs a laugh against Sherlock’s shirt. “You know I don’t really hate you, right?” he mutters, already half-asleep.</p>
<p>Sherlock presses a kiss to John’s forehead and smiles. “I figured.”</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. December 22nd 2020</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here's to this crazy, awful, thoroughly weird year, and here's to all the performers out there who have had it extra hard this year. We miss you! I hope in 2021 we can all finally put this craziness behind us. Stay healthy, guys!</p><p>Also, I admit that I had a difficult time finding out exactly how and when theatres were/are closed down in the UK, so I extrapolated from what it's like where I live. Sorry if this is not factually accurate, I can only hope it's emotionally accurate.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The creaking of the stage floor is excruciatingly loud in the silence of the sleeping theatre. </p><p>John wipes the dust off his stage manager’s desk with a gentle and loving hand. He straightens the roll of gaffer tape and adjusts the headphones on their hook. Then he steps out onto the stage.The seats are covered in dust sheets. The headlights are in storage, and the sickly glow of the working lights does nothing to penetrate the deep gloom of the auditorium. </p><p>The silence is the worst. It’s accumulated silence, layered. Eight months of nothing. No poetry, no song, no laughter, no inconvenient coughing, no rustling of clothes or sweets, no mobile phones disturbing a dramatic death scene.</p><p>John never thought he’d miss that. </p><p>He misses the performances themselves, yes. He misses listening to beautiful language, misses the moments when words give way to raw human emotion. But what he misses more is the feeling of a living, breathing, laughing, crying, cringing, silent, judgmental, bored, elated audience, a community of people who have come together to experience emotion. </p><p>He looks out at the sleeping theatre and rubs a hand over his face, tired of waiting. </p><p>The last eight months have been rough in their house. John’s been on furlough, but he comes in about once a week to check whether everything is alright. He’s been in touch with his crew over phone and email, but he hasn’t seen any of them in weeks. They had all come in over the summer when they briefly thought they might be able to open their doors again in September, but when that turned out not to be feasible, they scattered again, and John isn’t sure how long he can hold them together. He wouldn’t blame any of them for looking for another job, but it’s difficult to imagine coming back without Mary and Molly, at least. They’ve been together for so long as a crew that they understand each other without many words, a cohesive unit which works together seamlessly. A family. Inside and outside of these walls.</p><p>Footsteps behind him. Arms go around him and he leans back into Sherlock’s warmth. </p><p>“Don’t worry, you’ll be back in here before you know it,” Sherlock murmurs into his hair, as always seemingly able to read John’s mind.</p><p>“And if I’m not?” John asks, not bothering to keep the worry out of his voice. He knows Sherlock is well aware of his anxieties, and that they haven’t made him easy to live with during the last eight months. John feels a bit guilty about that, because Sherlock has been as unemployed as John. Worse, even, because while many stage crew were sent on furlough, most actors were dismissed outright. Sherlock has been doing some voice work, but mostly keeps busy with his experiments and his violin. But Sherlock doesn’t seem to miss the theatre with the all-consuming hollowness John has been experiencing. John knows that’s because acting is what Sherlock does for a living, it’s not who he is. But John is a stage manager. It’s an intrinsic part of his identity. Without it, without his crew and his actors and without the whirling machinery of a working theatre company around him, relying on him to keep it running, he’s been a bit lost.</p><p>“If you’re not, you’ll still be you and we’ll all still love you. But you’ll be back, you’ll see,” Sherlock says, dropping a kiss to the side of John’s neck.</p><p>“How can you be so sure?”</p><p>John can feel Sherlock’s smile stretch against the back of John’s head. “History, John. Three thousand years of it. Three thousand years of plagues and political unrest and fire and religious persecution, of lost years and lost centuries and wars and famines. And we’re still here. Humans need art, John. They need to know that they’re not alone, that other human beings have experienced the exact emotion they’re going through. So I know for a fact that we’ll be back. We’ve been coming back for three thousand years. What’s eight months to that?”</p><p>John smiles and turns around to bury his face in the folds of Sherlock’s coat. “What would I do without you,” he mutters against Sherlock’s throat.</p><p>Sherlock drops a kiss on his head. “I’ll make sure you’ll never have to find out.” He  draws back and grins. “I brought you something.”</p><p>He reaches into his coat pocket and fishes out a tiny sprig of mistletoe. Then he holds it over John’s head. </p><p>“Go on then,” John says, and tilts his head up.</p><p>Sherlock leans down and kisses him, and John thinks back to that first kiss, that heart-pounding-life-changing-head-spinning kiss, and as he winds his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, he thinks that eleven years have changed so very much between them, but not this.</p><p>They break apart for air, and John keeps hold of Sherlock’s waist to prevent him from moving away. “What would you have done, eleven years ago, if the mistletoe hadn’t been there?”</p><p>“Gotten you drunk, probably,” Sherlock answers, still grinning. It’s a good look on him, this playful joy, and John is proud that he’s the one who put it there.</p><p>“I’m glad you took a chance on me,” John says, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat. “I probably wouldn’t have had the guts to make the first move. It just boggled my mind that you’d be interested in me. Still does.”</p><p>“That’s because you’re an idiot,” Sherlock answers and moves in for another kiss. Then he draws back and takes John’s hand. “Now come help me pick out Christmas presents for my horrid parents.”</p><p>“Ah, they’re not that bad. Probably helped that they met Tom Hiddleston last year when you did that play together and your mum didn’t like him. She even asked me what you want for Christmas this year.”</p><p>“What did you say?”</p><p>“Well, I was sorely tempted to say raspberry lube, but I just told her to get you some of that ridiculously expensive shampoo you like.”</p><p>Sherlock laughs, and the sound reverberates in the empty auditorium. John looks out at the sleeping theatre, and then back at Sherlock and reminds himself that Sherlock is right. The audience will return. His crew will return. Theatre will return. And until it does, he’s loved and needed and that’s so much more than just enough. </p><p>He smiles and presses another kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “Let’s go.”</p>
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